“The National Gallery: After Hours” / Memorable Fancies #1544

The gallery is a hubbub of noise, as each painting yells curses at those damned sculptures with their three dimensions. How do they rate, those grim and monochrome things standing still and apart?

But we, at least, they tell each other, we are not always alone, here inside our frames: there are others to comfort us. Sometimes a little dog or flute can be seen in us, a vase of flowers, a rigidly posing servant who might, at one time, have been a sculptor’s model.

Happen cover pshopped

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